


Naughty is Nice

by Garrae



Category: Castle
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Fluff, Romance, santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 12:15:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2850548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garrae/pseuds/Garrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion piece to Naughty or Nice? from Castle's point of view.  Best to read the other first, but not essential.<br/>Christmas fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Choosing a gift

“You want to do _what_?”

When Lanie rings Castle mid-afternoon, his first thought is not that Christmas has come early, but that Lanie has been ingesting embalming fluid.

“Kate needs some fun.  So I’m taking her out to a Christmas-themed bar.  Stop flapping, Castle.  We all know you want to provide her with some fun.”  Castle gibbers.

“You are insane.  You’re going to try – you’ll never succeed – to dress Beckett up for Christmas, take her to a _Christmas-themed_ bar – _how_? – and _lie_ to her that I won’t show up?  Do you have a death wish?  She’ll kill you.  Then she’ll shoot me, for being an accessory.”

Lanie’s lubricious grin is actually audible in her tone.  “Not if you do it right.”

“Lanie!”  This is such a bad idea.  This is such a bad idea he has no idea why he’s even considering it.  In fact, he isn’t.  Even if he’s been dreaming about kissing Beckett for years.  He doesn’t need Lanie to set him up.  He can arrange his own dates with Beckett.  He can.  He just hasn’t, because he thought she needed time. 

“For Chrissake, Castle.  You two spread enough sexual tension around to turn the whole of Manhattan into a strip joint – and it’s not _all_ coming from you.  Here’s your chance.”

Castle is not at all convinced by Lanie’s plan.  But Lanie knows Beckett better than anyone, and if she, Lanie, thinks that Beckett might finally be receptive…  But he is not doing this Lanie’s way.  Absolutely not.

Castle’s devious mind concocts a plan without pausing for breath.  Beckett hates fuss, muss, dressing up and Christmas.  So…She’s going to hate this.  He’ll provide an escape route, and she’ll jump at it.  Lanie’s never going to be able to force Beckett into a costume, no matter how hard she tries.  But Beckett would sell her soul to the devil to get out the bar and the situation Lanie’s planning to set up. 

He has another thought.  He’ll arrange a sleigh.  Well, it might be just a little hard to find a sleigh on short notice, and in among his extensive collection of _guys he knows_ , even he does not know Santa.  Still, if he can’t find a sleigh he can certainly find a horse-drawn carriage, and stock it with warm blankets into which the pair of them can snuggle romantically.  Arm round shoulders, blankets covering them, and he’s sure that he can at least steal a peck on the cheek.

“Okay.  But you get to pay my medical bills.”

“Sure.  I won’t need to, though.”  She sniggers.  “You’ll thank me for it.”

Castle is entirely unconvinced of that too.  He still thinks that this is a dreadful idea, likely to produce pain and suffering rather than comfort and joy.  But he knows that Beckett will hate Lanie’s plan far, far more, and he can always save her the embarrassment and unhappiness of being stuck in a Christmas-themed bar.

Lanie is still talking.  “I’ll get her there in costume” – _you are on something, Lanie, which is undoubtedly illegal_ – “and let you know we’re there.  After that, it’s all up to you.”  He swears that he could hear a dirty laugh as she rings off.  It occurs to him that Lanie hasn’t told him what sort of a costume Beckett will – or, much more likely, won’t – wear.  He cannot imagine Beckett in a Christmas costume.  Lots of other forms of dress, or preferably undress, but not a Christmas costume.

He makes a couple of calls to sort out preliminary arrangements, deals with the slight problem that he has no idea what time he will want the carriage by the simple means of hiring it to wait at the bar for the whole night if necessary, (money may not buy happiness but it sure does help), and is perfectly satisfied that everything is in order. 

* * *

He’s ready when his phone chimes with a text from Lanie.   _Okay, we’re here.  Kate’s not impressed._   Well, that should make rescuing her pretty easy.  He looks out the window and regards the falling snow with enthusiasm.  He likes snow, and this will all be much nicer with pretty white snow rather than the rather dirty Manhattan semi-slush.  He bounces off to the bar, not forgetting his nice warm coat.  It’s cold.

The bar is packed solid with Christmas costumes of all shapes and sizes.  He can spot Lanie – those flashing lights are really _not_ required to draw attention to her assets: all you have to do is note the direction of every male eye: every single one of the many men around her is paying them considerable attention.  There’s Ryan – oh God, how can the man wear a tie with a Santa suit?  No appreciation of the art of costumery at all.  None.  The tie is quite good, though.  He likes the flashing Rudolph-nose.  Very much in the Christmas spirit.  He looks around some more – he hasn’t spotted Esposito yet – oh.  Oh boy.  He snorts.  He’s severely tempted to take several photos and distribute them around the Twelfth, if only he wasn’t nearly as scared of Esposito in a temper as he is of Beckett.  But Esposito as an _elf_?  How the hell did Lanie achieve that?  It takes him quite a few moments to control himself.

What he hasn’t found is a Beckett.  He can’t yet see anyone – except himself, he had considered dressing up and really regrets that he can’t, but he’s intending to take Beckett for a sleigh ride and he doesn’t feel that dressing up will really help the romantic mood he’d like to create – in ordinary dress.  He pushes rather deeper into the crowded bar.

Ah.  That must be Beckett.  All he can see is red – must be that jacket she sometimes wears – but he knows it’s Beckett because of the pitch-black storm-cloud over the bar stool she’s sitting on and the isolation zone around her.  She sure isn’t happy.  He eases a little closer, and cases the space around her.  Hmm.  Every barfly in here is leering her way.  From this angle, although leering at Beckett is an instinctive reaction that is probably built into the Y-chromosome, (and some X-chromosomes too, he expects) he can’t see anything that would trigger the brain-fried looks that she’s receiving.

Lanie brushes up to him.  “You got here.  Good.  Ryan’s just leaving.  That boy is so whipped.  I’ve had a good offer to go somewhere else.  Javi is occupied.  Tell Kate I’ll see her when I’ve got some results, or tomorrow.”  And she’s gone.  Castle stares after her.  That was a tactical retreat if ever he’s seen one.  Still, he’d better venture into the blast zone.

He gets close enough to see what Beckett’s wearing.  Oh _fuck_.  That is not her red jacket.  He stands and gapes.  How did Lanie _manage_ this?  _Oh oh oh_.  _Legs._   Legs legs legs.  Legs.  He becomes aware, with some embarrassment, that he is drooling.  Those _legs_.  Beckett in a Santa dress.  Where did Lanie _find_ it?  No wonder everyone is brain-dead.  It’s so short he bets she can’t bend over, and cut low at the top, though there’s a flirty little cape around her shoulders.  _Legs_ , his overheated brain screams.  He forcibly closes his mouth and tries to recover some game.  Eventually, just in time, it arrives.  Its arrival stops him hauling her up against him, kissing hell out her, and then dragging her out the bar to the nearest available wall.  _So_ not cool.

“Well, now,” he husks in her ear.  She jumps, and then looks absolutely horrified, and then produces a glare that would destroy missiles.  He improves the shining Christmas hour.  Beckett in a sexy Santa dress is _definitely_  Christmas coming early.  “If I’d known that Santa looked like this I’d have behaved a lot better.  I never imagined that Santa came in a female variety.”  He makes it perfectly obvious that he’s appreciating her figure.  Mostly her legs.  Her legs are gorgeous.  Her legs should be worshipped.  Her legs deserve his full attention for a considerable period.  “This is _so_ much better than a fat, bearded, old man.”  Oh yes.  He certainly wouldn’t be thinking the thoughts that he is thinking about a man.  His thoughts are very, very naughty – and would be very, very nice.  “Mmmm.” 

“I shouldn’t think Santa will visit you, Castle.  Santa only visits good children.”  Classic Beckett snark.  Well, he’s good.  Not a child – but still, Beckett makes it pretty clear that she regards him as one, so he’ll just use that against her.

“You’re always telling me that I’m a child.  A – what was it?  Oh yes – nine-year old on a sugar rush.  So I’m sure Santa will visit.  And I’ve been very good, all year.  I’m very, very good.  When Santa arrives in my bedroom late at night, she won’t be leaving coal.  Or leaving disappointed.”  He can’t help licking his lips.  He’s perfectly certain he wouldn’t disappoint Beckett.  And seeing her like this, he is perfectly desperate for her to arrive in his bedroom, any time.  Now.  He sees a little spark flicker in her eyes: a Christmas candle flame of desire.

“She won’t be disappointed because she won’t be there at all.  Santa doesn’t exist.  And even if Santa did exist he’s male.  Old and fat.”  No Christmas spirit at all there, Beckett.  And her glass is empty – whiskey?  She really will sell her soul to get out of this.

 “Clearly that’s not true.  Santa’s right here, and she doesn’t look old, fat or male to me.”  He notes the still-live spark in her eye, and presses in a little.  She doesn’t seem to notice, and she hasn’t shot him yet.  “Want another?”  When she nods, he acquires two.  Christmas is a time for sharing, after all. 

“What happened to your Christmas costume?”  More snark.  She’s tugging at the edge of the skirt, trying to lengthen it.  He doesn’t like that.  He likes the legs.  ( _legs legs legs_ )  He tries putting a hand on her knee.  The electric shock runs right up his arm and blazes through his brain.  She hasn’t noticed that either, but her eyes are beginning to darken.

“Wouldn’t you like to see my contribution to Christmas costumes, Beckett?  Or you could come and see my Christmas tree.  Having a big one is so important, don’t you agree?”  He smirks.  He can keep this up all night.  He’s hoping to keep other things up all night, too, because he has the distinct impression that Beckett is a lot more interested in him than she’s ever previously admitted.  If not, she’d have broken his fingers by now.  He sneaks them a little higher up, and gets away with it. 

“Size is irrelevant.  It’s how you decorate it that counts.”  Game on.

“You could help me… decorate.  It’s so much more fun with two.  Makes… placing the decorations… so much nicer.”   _Come on, Beckett.  Help me decorate.  My bedroom could do with some decoration._ “I’m sure I’ve been good all year.  But maybe Santa needs a little more evidence.”  He’ll provide plenty of evidence of how good he can be.

“Bit late, Castle.  This close to Christmas, it’s all decided.” 

“I don’t think so.  I think Santa takes account of your behaviour right up till the last minute.”  He slips his other arm round her shoulders, under this astonishingly strokable cape.  Velvet.  Red velvet.  It just begs to be petted.  He draws a little Christmas pattern on the soft skin of her shoulders.  She wriggles.  He’s fairly sure that his smile is now openly predatory.  “Her opinion could be changed.  Couldn’t it?  I’m sure Santa keeps an open mind.”  This Santa could also usefully have open lips, preferably pressed against his.  She’s produced that patented look of scepticism complete with raised eyebrow, which is absolutely _not_ the right look.  He tugs her up – how convenient that she was trying to pull his hand off her leg ( _legs legs legs_ , his hindbrain squawks) and realises that she’s even taller than usual.  He’d only have to lean forward an inch… this is a very unhelpful thought.  He’s in public.

“Where’s Lanie?  Where are Ryan and Esposito?”  Nothing like changing the subject, Beckett. 

“Well… Lanie went off with someone and said she’d see you tomorrow, or whenever she had some lab results.  Ryan went home, and Esposito’s chatting up another cop in the corner over there.”  He is certain that Beckett is planning unsolvable murder on all three of them.  Time to move this along.  She’s downed that whiskey in short order, and it’s time to rescue her.  He scowls over her head at the barflies and leering masses, who take another step backwards.  Beckett’s not the only one who can do intimidation.

He tugs, hopefully.  She wasn’t expecting that, clearly.  Because now she’s all pressed against him and that is doing _nothing_ for his control and suavity.  “Come on, Beckett.  Let’s get out of here.  C’mon.  I’ve got a surprise for us.”  They’d better get out of here.  He can’t cope with those legs ( _legs legs legs!_ ) for much longer.

It’s still snowing.  Mmmmm.   But Beckett is not going to last long in that piece of beautiful but scanty wrapping.  It doesn’t cover anything like enough for her to be warm.  Where’s the carriage?  It should be right here.  She’s shivering already.

“You’re cold,” he says, helpfully, and tucks her as closely in as he can manage. 

“Yeah, genius.  This outfit is not warm.”

“No.  It wasn’t designed for warmth, was it?”  It was designed to be taken off.  Slowly, to ensure that the wearer stays warm.  Not to say hot.

“It wasn’t my idea, either,” Beckett shivers again.  “When I get hold of Lanie…”  Castle is glad he isn’t Lanie.  For more reasons than the obvious.  Thank heavens, there’s the carriage.

“There we are. Santa needs a sleigh,” he says happily – and annoyingly. She scrambles in – _ooh_ , the view – and buries herself in as many blankets as she can manage without quite disappearing.  He understands why, but he definitely regrets the loss of the legs ( _legs legs legs_ ) into fluffy woolly fabric.  He bounces up beside her and rearranges the coverings until he’s tucked in beside her without a single blanket between them. 

“I couldn’t get a sleigh, so this was the next best thing.  So here you are.” 

Uh-oh.  She’s just worked out that this isn’t a coincidence.  He loves how intelligent she is – but not when it’s likely to lead to his demise.

“Castle,” she says ominously, “how did you manage to arrange this in the few moments you were in the bar without actually touching your phone?”  There is a short silence, Castle thinking that discretion is very much the better part of valour.  “Castle?  Lanie told you, didn’t she?  That… That…”  _You’re using very naughty language in your head, Beckett._   “When I get my hands on Lanie I will” – And those thoughts aren’t polite, either.  Anyway.  The carriage has moved off, Beckett’s incredible legs ( _legs legs legs_ ) are pressed against him, and no-one can see what his free hand is doing.  Time to see if he can’t bring Santa-Beckett some Christmas cheer.  He drops into a more seductive voice.

“I’d much rather you used your hands for delivering presents,” he growls, and slips his hand on to her knee, stretching his fingers a little northward and drawing interesting little squiggles upwards as far as he can readily reach.  Her breathing changes.  “Santa’s supposed to bring joy and happiness.  Like this.”  He turns her round and kisses her far too briefly.  (If he kisses her properly he might never stop.)  Now to see what she really wants.  If she doesn’t shoot him, or maim him, or object at all, he’ll know he’s allowed to carry on. 

None of the above happen.  Instead, she wriggles enticingly, leans in and kisses him in a very naughty manner indeed.  Isn’t Santa supposed to be nice, not naughty?  Though Castle likes this naughty, sexy Santa very much.  Her hand is on his knee.  Well, thereabouts, anyway.  His hand rises slightly, towards the hem of that very, very short skirt.  Her legs feel very, very nice under his fingers.  His hand rises a lot further.  She likes that, from the way she’s kissing him now.  She’s _definitely_ not objecting.  He really likes this Santa.  She deserves that he should be very good.  Very, very good.  He kisses her a lot harder, and touches her in a way that should stay firmly out of public view.  The carriage reaches her block just before she starts something in return that he couldn’t stop.  His hand was not the only one which was wandering.

Santa should get presents, he decides slightly hazily, in the elevator.  Lots and lots of presents.  He crowds against Beckett as she opens the door, rigidly upright.  Bit like he is, really.  He barely waits for the door to shut before he’s dragged her up into him and tasted those full lips and that sensual mouth properly.  He’s dreamed about the way she tastes.  Right now she tastes of rye whiskey and Christmas and heaven.  His busy mind starts down a rather different path, though one that he’s been contemplating for a while now, designed to ensure that he gets to kiss Beckett a lot more.  A _lot_ more.  All the time, in fact.  It’s only fair to give her a present that, on current evidence, she’ll really, really like.

“I’ve always thought it was rather unfair,” he says insinuatingly, “that Santa only got a small glass of juice.”  He kisses her again, deeply, because he really cannot resist her in the slightest and she’s so into this too.  It really is Christmas come all at once.  “She deserves so much more.”  She curves into him and slides her hands up round his neck and she can do that for the rest of his life.  Beckett plastered against him is just plain perfect.  Well, not quite perfect.  She still has clothes on.  So does he.  But from the sexy, husky tone she’s using now, that won’t last.

“Maybe you should prove that you’re a good boy.”  _Is that a challenge, Beckett?  Really?_

“I’m very, very good.  But I’m not a boy.”  Now to teach Beckett that he’s no child.  She squirms when he nibbles her ear.  “I’m very definitely all man,” he purrs.  He presses her close and rolls against her.  Not too much.  He wants this to last.  Santa-Beckett deserves presents, and presents are always best when they’ve been… anticipated… for a while.  He slides the cape off, and strokes over her skin.  She feels so _good_ under his hands.  He takes a good look at the dress.  Well.  Half a dress.  It’s just about decent at both top and bottom.  Wow.   ( _legs legs legs_ )  His hindbrain hasn’t stopped screaming about her legs since he got a good look in the bar.  But he’s had a chance to play with her legs.  Other areas deserve attention.

“Santa _definitely_ never looked like that when I was growing up.  I would never have done this to the Santa in the mall.”  He runs his tongue over her neckline, looks up and sees her eyes huge and dark and hot, all for him.  Best.  Santa.  Ever.  He smiles, slowly. 

“I like this Santa much better.  Santa works so hard” –  he dips his fingers under the neckline and slips them down to play with the curves and the edge of lace and then the hard points – “that she deserves a break.  A gift of her own.  Something she’ll really enjoy.”  He knows she’s already enjoying this.  She’s panting slightly and pushing into his naughty hands and curving against him and her mouth is a little open and her lips glistening and this is the sexiest Santa imaginable and she’s _all his_. 

And then she kisses him deep and dirty and there’s only one place this is going now because she’s just palmed his ass and rocked into him and she’s _exactly_ where he wants her.

“Have you been good, Castle?” she whispers _filthily_ into his ear, and licks the shell.  “Only good boys get a present from Santa.”

 


	2. Giving and receiving

"Oh yes, I've been good."  And he intends to be even better in a very few moments.

"Are you sure? I think you're a very bad boy." No, he’s just very, very good at being bad.  _Ohhh_.  If she does that again, though, he’ll be showing her just how bad he can be rather sooner than he wants to.  Her hands are _evil_. "This doesn't feel like you're a good boy at all." _Oh fuck Beckett_.  _Santa is not supposed to behave like this_. "Nope. Not a good boy." Beckett is clearly taking some revenge for his earlier actions. "I might make an exception. It is Christmas. If you look really hard, then I'm sure you'll find I've got a present for you." Castle’s had quite enough of her smart comments and innuendo.  He’ll have her mouth, instead.  There is only so much he can take.  Before he takes her, of course.

Okay.  That is _wicked_.  Where did too-cool-for-words Beckett learn _that?_   No-one’s ever had that effect on him before.  He has to stop her.  He knows just how to do it.  He catches her hands, and he’s never normally prehistoric but something about imprisoning her hands out the way is just so hot and it’s obvious that she really, really likes that too.  Maybe he’ll get her another present.  Leather, and lockable.  _Ooohhhh_.  They can share it.  Oh yes.

But first, Santa-Beckett needs some fun.  Balance up all the hard work she does.  Better unwrap this present just a little, to ensure that she gets maximum pleasure from it.  Now, how to do this?  He normally simply rips the wrapping paper off, but he likes this wrapping and he wants it to be available later.  If he’s careful, though, he can unwrap from – er – the inside out.  He slides his hands up the smooth legs ( _legs legs legs!_ ) and starts slowly peeling down the pantyhose.  (Stockings would have been even better, but then he wouldn’t have been removing them.)  His fingers glide gently over the soft skin of her thighs.  She’s trembling, just a little.  He smiles ferally.  He’s not going to kiss her just yet.  No matter how much he wants to.  He’ll leave – _ohhh,_ that’s pretty – her silk panties in place too.   He carefully avoids touching any sensitive areas.  Looks like she’s currently _very_ sensitive.  Why have they waited this long?

He strokes the pantyhose down and massages them off each foot in turn.  Beckett has very pretty feet.  He wouldn’t have predicted the crimson varnish on her toes, though.  He didn’t know she had any bent towards frivolity.  It matches the dress, which is quite an astonishingly sexy thing.  He puts each foot carefully back in its shoe, making absolutely sure he doesn’t tickle her – that’s a game for a different time: this is all about seduction.  By the time he’s finished tonight she’ll understand that they should be together.  She’s already in the pool with him.  He sits back on his heels and looks up ( _legs legs legs_ ).   Now to make Santa-Beckett very, very happy. 

"What does Santa like?" He feathers his fingers over her calves, and wonders if she realises she’s already breathing harder.  She’s so _hot_. "Does she like this?" She clearly likes his mouth.  He hasn’t touched anywhere critical and she’s emitting tiny little noises that are unbearably sexy.  "Or that?"  Oh, definitely that.  He’d better prop her up.  He really doesn’t want her to fall over.  He kisses just above her knees: one side then the other, holding her open.  She’s already more than damp.

"Is this being a good boy?" she asks huskily.

"I'm very good," he smirks, running a very dirty, wet kiss a little below where she’d obviously like.  There’s a small mewl somewhere above his head.  She’s definitely wobbling now.   He finds her hips and supports her while he teases and blows over her and she is so ready for him that if he only licked across the silk he’d have her screaming.  But not yet.  He intends to enjoy her.  Christmas is about sharing good times, after all.  She’s having a very good time. 

 _That’s so not fair, Beckett.  Why are you stopping me?_ "Bed," she breathes. "Santa only comes when you're in bed."   

"Is that so?" He doesn’t believe that.  He’d intended to bring her screaming right here, supporting her all the way.  Still, it’s a lot easier to do if she’s lying down.   She wobbles quite alarmingly.  Ah.  She can’t actually stand up any longer.  This is deeply flattering.  She’s made so many flip comments about her previous experiences and now she’s finding out that he’s pretty good at this too. "Better go to bed, then. I wouldn't want Santa not to come."  She is so beautifully, gorgeously, scorchingly hot, spread out across the bed in that shockingly erotic Santa dress.  And now he has a plan, again. 

Start slowly.  "There. Santa can come any time she likes. I'll be good for the whole night." _Let’s begin with telling you that this is all night, not just the evening.  We’ll get to the next stage in a while._   He seems to have got away with that.

Now to show Beckett that his mouth isn’t just for talking.  He likes doing this.  He likes it a lot.  She’s making more sexy noises now.  He shifts the silk out the way and licks over her.  Ah.  If he doesn’t want his neck broken it might be an idea to hold on to her.   He’ll just take this very inconvenient covering off first.  That worked.  Now she’s moaning, and pleading, and _yes!_ Santa’s come tonight.  He slithers up the bed and cuddles her in.  How has he never noticed how perfectly sized she is for fitting into him?  Or more pertinently, how has he never acted on it?  He could stay like this for a very long time.  He smiles with considerable and smug satisfaction.  Santa-Beckett was meant to be right here, and here she is.

Oh.  That’s no fun.  Santa’s trying to run away.  He doesn’t like that.  He spent years inventing traps to catch Santa, and failing.  Well, he’s got this Santa, and he is absolutely keeping her.  It’s ridiculous, to be this possessive about a woman he’s only just got together with.  Quite ridiculous.   But he is.  It really doesn’t fit his suave, sophisticated image.  He’s suddenly _understood_ why cavemen hit their women over the head.  It’s so they couldn’t realise that the cavemen were totally hypnotised by them and that all the power really resided with the women.  He is so screwed.  He’s never going to get over this.  One-and-done really does exist.

What is Beckett _doing_?  Has she no patience?  Doesn’t she know that unwrapping should be slow?  He doesn’t want to be fishing buttons out of inconvenient places – that would be worse than the first time he’d had sex on a beach and found that sand is nearly as painful as sandpaper would have been.  On the other hand, from the look on her face she’s appreciating the view rather more than she’d expected to.  It’s nice to know that he’s inducing the same look of stunned lust in her as she does in him.  Oh.  She’s – purring.  Ohhh, that note should be poured into his ears all the time.

"Santa's come.  Time for her to give you a present."

Yes.  Present.  Yes _please_ , Santa.  Just come here and touch me and that will do very nicely.  He doesn’t like her that way round.  How’s he supposed to kiss her if she’s facing the wrong way?  Well, if he can’t kiss, he can certainly touch.  He slides his fingers over her legs ( _legs legs legs!_ ) and into the vee and through the slick heat that’s hiding under the velvet skirt.  Velvet above, and slick silky skin below.  It feels _very_ nice when she squirms like that.  More, _please_ , Santa-Beckett.  _No. Don’t tut at me.  Let me make you happy.  Again.  Some more.  All the time._

"That's not being nice, Castle. That's being naughty. Don't you want a present?"

"I thought I'd got my present when Santa came. All wrapped up in red velvet." He’d never realised how tactile velvet is, till now.  "I like red velvet cake. It's one of my favourite things to eat."  Though Santa-Beckett is definitely at the top of that list.  With or without red velvet.  With or without cake, for that matter.

"No, you've not had your present yet. Be good, and you'll get it."  _You’ll get it, Beckett.  Just the way you want it_.  She’s undressing him.  He’s dreamed this, oh _so_ often, and now it’s happening.  It must be Christmas.  It really is the best Christmas ever. But she really shouldn’t be sniggering at his Christmas boxers.  It’s unkind.  _Oh fuck_.  Don’t do that, Beckett.  It makes him think of everything _else_  her mouth could be doing. 

"Christmas boxers, Castle?"

"Yes. Appropriate clothing for all circumstances. Essential for the well-dressed writer about town."

"Appropriate, hmmm?" She twists round to look at him.  That is a particularly interesting view.  How flexible is she? "Really? I guess I'd better leave them there, then. If they're appropriate to the occasion."

"I'll let you decide what's appropriate. You being Santa and all. I wouldn't want to interfere with whatever Santa decides to bring me."  At this point, Beckett could do just about anything that doesn’t involve pain and he’d enjoy it.   But she has a very naughty look in her eye and he thinks that she’s about to bend forward and …take him in hand.  Or mouth.  Either will do.  Santa-Beckett obviously absorbed all the naughtiness that the nice children didn’t.  She’s _very_ naughty.

 _Oh fuck.  Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck._   He had no idea.  _Oh fuck oh fuck_.  This is just her _hands_.  _Oh fuck she’s leaning over_.  He is going to die.  He is going to die of pleasure in about two seconds.  They’ll go together.  He has no brain: it’s surely instinct that pulled her flat and let him taste her all over again and _oh fuck_ he gives up entirely.  He can’t breathe.  There is nothing in the world but her and her mouth.  _Beckett Beckett Beckett Beckett_ and he shoves up into her and she just won’t _stop_ and _Beckett_ he shatters into her mouth.

The only thing he can do is make sure that _his_ Beckett isn’t going anywhere while he recovers.  She’s trying to escape again.  No.  He’s not letting her go.  After a minute or two, he realises that he’s speaking.  Ah.  He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.  _Mine.  Mine mine mine.  Mine._   Beckett rolls over.  Mmmm yes.  _Mine_.  Just stay there, Beckett.

"Mine.  All mine. My present."  Seeing as he’s inadvertently said it, he might as well make the point.

"What are you talking about?"

"Mine."

"Mine what, Castle?" His hand slides over the velvet dress and finds the curve of her ass.  She’s so gloriously pettable.  He’s going to spend a long time petting her.  Years.  A lifetime, in fact.

"Mine. I spent years trying to catch Santa and failing. Now I've got her."  He’s keeping her.  He strokes down over her rear and starts to show her how naughty his fingers can be.

"What" – she’s so ready, all over again, all for him and her and no-one else, ever – "do you mean?"  Oh, Beckett, that was a mistake.  He can talk her round in circles simply because he’ll make statements she simply can’t counter.  She’s always so logical.  She can’t deal with hopeless illogicality.

"I've caught Santa, and now I'm keeping her. She's my present." She’s already looking slightly irritated and confused.  If she were next to a brick wall she’d be beating her head on it.  "Mine," he purrs, and slips two fingers into her for just long enough to derail her thoughts.

"You can't keep Santa. Santa is for everyone."  Not this Santa.  This Santa is only for him.  Everyone else can have the old fat man in the coverall.  He’s got the hot brunette in the cover-nothing.

"Santa's only for everyone on Christmas Eve. Anyway, Santa is able to be everywhere in only a few instants on Christmas Eve. She's like a quantum wave. Particle. Both. Schrodinger's Santa." He’s particularly proud of that piece of half-assed insanity.  It’s even nearly accurate.  Well, within a quantum interval.  He knew all that research into nuclear physicists would come in handy.  She’s completely boggled.  "So I can have her all the time because quantum theory means that she can be delivering presents and still be with me." Got her.  _Stop arguing, Beckett.  Just snuggle down and let me make you feel very, very nice._

"You do realise that Santa isn't real, don't you?" That’s a last-ditch hope.  Just because he behaves like a child occasionally – but not now – doesn’t mean he is one.

"Santa isn't real? Nooooooo!" Then he smiles. "Of course she is. She's right here."  She makes a truly frustrated noise. 

"If I'm Santa then I can't possibly be a cop. So you'll have no-one to follow around."  _Why are you still arguing?  Stop it._

"Santa has to have a day job." Well, actually, she doesn’t, but she’d never be happy without one, so he’d better accept that she’ll not agree to stay home in bed with him all the time.  "Otherwise how would she live? She has to eat. So she needs a job. So why not be a cop?"

He’s tired of this verbal byplay.  Much more fun to go back to foreplay.  He pushes her down on to her back and leans over her. He smiles happily. "My present. My Santa." He can see argument rising in her eyes, and stops it by kissing her firmly.  Shame he can’t do that in the precinct.  She’d shoot him.  He improves her lack of argument by stroking her in a very naughty way indeed.

 _Ow_.  She is _not_ allowed to use his ears to pull him where she likes.  It hurts.  It’s not nice.  She won’t be getting presents if she does that again.  Oh, that’s better.  Kisses are much better and _oooohhh_ stroking him like that is better still.  He’d better reciprocate.  She feels so very nice when she’s being so very naughty.

"I like velvet. So very strokable."   She should stop trying to take it off.  Right now, it’s hugely erotic and she is thoroughly aroused by having the dress – but not much else – on.  He really likes this dress.  Really, really likes it.  But he likes the contents even more.  He uses his fingers to considerable advantage and she writhes against his hand.  Looks like Santa will shortly be coming again.

"It'll need dry-cleaned," she moans.  This is irrelevant.  He can always find her a dry-cleaner.  Tomorrow.  Or buy a second dress.

"Oh.  That's okay. I'll get you another one."  He slips his fingers in and out and kisses her deeply and moves just a little roughly and she opens for him and whimpers and she is not thinking about _anything_ but him now. He thrusts in and out and she is so unbelievably, amazingly hot and wet and tight about him and he can barely believe that he is really, truly, finally making love with Kate Beckett and it’s even _better_ than he’d ever dreamed it could be and she’s fallen apart around him and he’s right there with her.

"Maybe you were right."  That was astounding.  He’s never going to let her go.  He doesn’t care how stalker-ish or psychopathic that is.  She’s his.  But pretty as the dress is, it’s time for it to go.  He wants her skin-to-skin with him, where he can come and adore her.  Or possibly vice versa.

"Uh?"

"The dress."

"What about the dress?"

 _I’ll show you_.  He turns her over on to her front, and very slowly unzips the back of the dress, kissing and licking as he reveals each individual vertebra of her spine.  She’s so slim, how does she not break?  He’ll surround her, envelop her, fold her in.  He reaches the curve of her back, and runs out of zip.  He stops kissing, and _oohh_ she doesn’t like that.  That noise is so cute.  She sounds like a cross little kitten.  Though the glare is just as effective as ever.  He’ll not tell her that he was hoping she’d roll over…at least not directly.

"Perfect.  Total mental attunement." He puts on a disgustingly sappy expression that he knows she hates, and watches her entirely predictable look of disgust.  Her nose wrinkles at him, and that’s so cute too.  Who’d have guessed that bad-ass Beckett could be cute? "We share a deep and meaningful connection."  She purred.  She _purred_.  And that stretch is very nice too.  She looks – for the first time ever, he thinks, totally and utterly relaxed and satisfied.  She belongs with him.  She does.  He’s never seen that look on her face before, and he’s put it there.  Now to keep it there.

He rolls the dress up slowly, stroking the skin he uncovers, dropping little kisses randomly over her, not doing anything too overt, simply letting tension build within her, letting her see the appreciation and heat and desire in his eyes.  It’s a look he’s very occasionally been unable to suppress around her at work, though she’s never really reacted to it.  Oh.  Oh oh oh.  _That’s_ what happens when she shrugs?  _That_ never happened when she shrugs at work.  Then again, it’s not as if she’s this – er – unbuttoned.  He unclips – ooh, a push up variety – her bra and disposes of all remaining clothing.  They won’t need it any more.  Her skin is stunning: pale and luminous, soft as the snow still falling.

He starts at her neck, no marks, just soft, delicate licks and tiny nibbles, drawing patterns that leave a  flush behind them; moves downward to roll and mould and provide a hint of pressure, letting her know that if she wanted, he could be harder, faster, rougher; further down, teasing and circling and nipping a little harder, right on the edge of possession.  Not yet, not now, but soon possession – both ways – can be, will be, overt.  Finally, when she’s moaning and trying to move and he’s just above her soaking, heated centre and _this_ is what she deserves, _this_ is her present and his, he stops and leans over her and begins to show the real story in his unfiltered expression.

"There. All unwrapped. Now I can see the whole of my present.  I like slow unwrapping. I like anticipating my discoveries. It makes playing with my present" – he draws a firm hand down the centre of her body and stops a little north of where he should, so that she squirms and tries to move him – "so much better." He grins down at _his_ Beckett, safe beside him. "And now that I've caught Santa and she's my present I'll have something to unwrap all year round."  He sees her try to catch that thought, like a child trying to catch the sweets falling from a broken piñata. 

"A gift that keeps on giving," he murmurs.  She’s trying to think, he can tell.  She doesn’t need to think, she just needs to enjoy.  He trails his fingers through the soft heat and wet folds, flickers in and out and round about till it’s clear that she’s not thinking any more; bends to kiss her full mouth again, now sure, and hard, and possessive, and her answer to that is just as sure and possessive as he is, so he pulls her firmly in and she wraps one incredible leg around his waist and they’re almost as close as they could be, almost one.

"Of course, it's better to give than to receive," he drawls deeply. "I've received my presents" – he can’t stop his voice dropping into a fur-edged bedroom growl that – if she’s paying attention, which he rather hopes she isn’t quite yet – might clue her in to the very permanent nature of being his present: he doesn’t give away his gifts – "and now it's my turn to give."

He leans down and watches her eyes dilate and her body flush and her hands are pulling him down over her and she’s pleading for more and demanding everything and he’ll give her everything, always and forever and ever, as long as they both shall live.  He slides into her again and this is Christmas, all their Christmases come at once, come together.  There’s nothing but this moment and this movement and them, and then there’s nothing at all.

"I love Christmas," Castle murmurs. "Don't you?"

"Uh." Sounds like Beckett’s still completely brain-fried.  Time to put the last piece in place.

"But I always felt that Santa got a bit of a raw deal, only coming once a year.  I feel that Santa should come a lot more often. Every night, at least."  As often as possible, in fact.  _Are you listening, Beckett?  This isn’t sleigh bells ringing.  One day, it’ll be other bells chiming.  One day soon_.

"Uh?"

"So that's settled." 

"What's settled?" "You're my present, and Santa ought to come every night. So you'll have to spend every night with me, Santa."

He kisses her again, and strokes, and touches, and when his Santa-Beckett has come again, she finally manages words.  “Oh, okay then.”  As if it were a done deal, an obvious answer: as if he should never have needed to ask.  Best.  Present.  Ever. 

And then she's not saying anything at all.  She’s asleep in his arms, right where she should be. 

* * *

This Christmas, he’s going to give Lanie the biggest present he can possibly think of.

But one Christmas soon, Santa willing, he’s going to give Beckett a ring.


End file.
